Fugitive Red

by Jason Starr

  “I’m sorry, but I think the kids are falling behind. Noah has friends in other schools who already know all their times table, and my daughter is still having trouble with addition.”

  “I know, I think we need to do something,” Ann-Marie said, “talk to the principal or start a petition.”

  “I don’t think that’ll do any good,” Sylvia said. “The principal is so stuck in her ways.”

  Karen went on, complaining, and then she asked me, “What do you think?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Karen had asked me something, but I hadn’t processed it.

  “I asked you what you think about Common Core,” she said. Karen was the class mom.

  “Oh, yeah, I’m totally anti–Common Core,” I said. “I think it’s putting a tremendous, uh, burden on the students.”

  I continued participating in the conversation, making appropriate comments such as, “I think a petition’s a great idea,” and, “As parents, we all need to be more assertive.” But I felt distracted, disconnected.

  After the playground, I went with Jonah and a few of his friends and their moms and babysitters for frozen yogurt at Sixteen Handles on 2nd Avenue. On the way home, Jonah and I swung by Agata & Valentina on 1st Avenue to pick up some groceries. We’d had Chinese a lot lately, and I thought it would be nice to have a home-cooked meal for a change.

  I made a garden salad and one of my specialties—chicken cutlets and rice pilaf. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly difficult to sautée a few chicken breasts and prepare packaged rice pilaf, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

  Maria came home and saw dinner on the stove.

  “You cooked?” She sounded surprised.

  “Yeah, just thought it would be nice to mix things up for a change.”

  “Great idea,” she said.

  She went into the bedroom to change out of her work clothes.

  During dinner, Jonah told us all about what he’d learned in science class in school and about Pokémon Go. It was nice to have a pleasant dinner with my family. For the first time in a long time things seemed normal. Maybe if I continued to make an effort, things with Maria would improve. Maybe we could have a date night, talk more, and enjoy each other the way we used to.

  “It’s too bad they don’t teach Pokémon on the fourth-grade exam,” I said to Maria.

  “Yeah, that’s true.” Maria suddenly seemed out of it.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure,” she said, wincing, as if she had a sour taste in her mouth. “I have to go lie down.”

  She headed into the bedroom.

  Later, after I tucked Jonah in, I heard Maria in the bathroom, throwing up violently.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, concerned.

  She couldn’t answer, but I caught a glimpse of her very pale face.

  “Close the door,” she said.

  For the next half hour, she couldn’t leave the bathroom. I made periodic offers to help her, but she insisted that I leave her alone.

  Finally, she left the bathroom, looking like she’d been through hell.

  “Jesus, you should lie down again,” I said. “Can I get you something? Water? Ginger ale? Imodium?”

  She stood near the bathroom, looking disgusted, holding her stomach.

  Then she said, “I think it was the chicken.”

  “I don’t see how that’s possible,” I said. “I cooked it thoroughly and it definitely wasn’t spoiled. I remember checking the date on the package. I really think you should force yourself to drink some water.”

  “Did you clean the knife?” she asked.

  “Of course I cleaned it,” I said.

  Actually, I thought I’d cleaned it, but I couldn’t remember for sure.

  “I mean before you made the salad,” she said.

  “Yes, of course I cleaned it,” I said. “I mean I don’t remember not cleaning it.”

  “So there’s a chance you didn’t clean it.”

  “I cleaned it, I’m sure,” I said. “Besides, I’m not sick and Jonah isn’t sick. It’s obviously just a virus, or something you ate at work. It’s going around. Four kids were absent in Jonah’s class today.”

  “I know the difference between food poisoning and a virus,” Maria said, “and this isn’t a fucking virus. It must’ve been salmonella from the knife you used to cut the chicken.”

  I understood why Maria was upset, but I didn’t like how she was taking it out on me.

  “You don’t have to curse,” I said, “and are you actually accusing me of giving you salmonella?”

  “I can curse whenever I want to curse,” she said,

  She was about to add to this when her face turned grayish-white. She rushed back into the bathroom, slamming the door.

  “Why’s Mommy so mad?”

  Jonah had heard the door slam and came out of his room. He looked worried.

  “She’s just not feeling well,” I said. “But she’ll be fine, I promise.”

  “Okay,” Jonah said and returned to bed.

  I sat on the couch for a while, trying to relax. I felt bad for arguing with Maria, especially within earshot of Jonah, but the dynamic was typical. It seemed like whenever I made an attempt to try to improve my marriage or open up communication, it somehow backfired.

  Trying to distract myself, I went online on my laptop. I checked Facebook—Rob had posted a selfie of himself with a big smile in front of the big clock at Grand Central Station—and I discovered that the Powerball ticket I’d bought the other day had no correct numbers. I was about to close the browser when I remembered Rob talking about that extramarital dating website; what was the name of it? Dangerous Hookups? No, Discreet Hookups, that was it.

  For the hell of it, I checked it out.

  The welcome page was the silhouette of a man sitting on a beach. As I dragged the cursor over the man, a silhouette of a shapely woman appeared next to him. Then above the couple the words appeared:

  MARRY FOR COMPANIONSHIP, CHEAT FOR HAPPINESS

  I was about to close my laptop, but then I thought, What the hell? and clicked enter.

  I read the testimonials with “real Discreet Hookups clients”—men and women, claiming about how Discreet Hookups had helped them to meet “sexy, exciting married people” and saved their own marriages. Then I browsed several articles about affairs with titles like “The Truth About Extramarital Affairs” and “Why Good People Cheat.” All of the articles were skewed toward the attitude that life is short, so why waste it in a bad marriage? They cited probably inflated, distorted statistics claiming that seventy-five percent of all married men cheat on their spouses, and sixty percent of all women cheat. One article, written by some expert marriage counselor, claimed that affairs had saved the marriages of many of his patients. Another argued that the “stigma of infidelity” was an American phenomenon, and that in Europe, affairs were much more accepted.

  Of course all the articles—and, let’s face it, the entire website—left out the other side of the story, about how affairs destroyed marriages and families and caused pain for everyone involved. Most of the divorced people I knew in A.A. had cheated on their spouses and claimed that, aside from their decision to take their first sip of alcohol, it was the worst choice they’d ever made. But I couldn’t blame the Discreet Hookups people for avoiding the depressing side effects of affairs. Would alcohol and tobacco companies warn consumers about the potential dangers of their products if they weren’t forced to by the government? As long as there were no legal restraints about a dating service for infidelity, why get all moral with people and ruin the fun?

  Admittedly, there was something titillating about the site. This wasn’t an accident; it had been designed to get unhappily married guys like me intrigued.

  I wanted to browse the photos, just to see what kind of people went on these sites. Of course there was no way I was going to register with my actual name, but there was an option to register as a guest. I didn’t have to give a cre
dit card number, just some basic information—height, body type, and my “limits” and “status.” For status I chose “Attached male seeking females”; for limits I selected “something short term.” I had to choose a user name. What the hell, I tried NYCRockGod, but it was taken. Brilliant minds? So I went with NYCRockGod2.

  I guess I was expecting to see provocative pics of scantily clad women, but the women of “D-Ho” looked very average, like—well, like the moms I saw in the playground every day. Some weren’t complete photos—they were taken from the neck down or their faces were blacked out—but most of them were unobstructed, normal photos, probably like the ones on any dating site.

  Almost all the women had the same status: Attached female seeking males. Some claimed that their limits were “undecided,” but most indicated that they were interested in “cyber affair/erotic chat.” Most had chosen provocative names that included some combination of hot, sexy, honey, horny, or siren, but very few of the photos seemed to match the names.

  Well, I’d gotten my glimpse into the world of extramarital dating websites. I wanted to give Maria some space, so I went for a walk around the neighborhood. I was thinking about my marriage, trying to figure out how things had gotten to this point. I wished we had a dog—for the companionship and to give my walks more purpose—but Maria was allergic. On the way home, I stopped at a deli and bought Maria ginger ale and Saltines. Back at the apartment, I checked on her. She was in bed, on her back, with the lights out. I thought she was asleep, then she stirred.

  “How’re you feeling?” I asked.

  “Like shit,” she said.

  “I got you some ginger ale and crackers.”

  “I’ll probably just throw them up.”

  I knew this was a bad time to get into it, but letting things fester wasn’t good either.

  “I’m not happy,” I said.

  She remained still for maybe ten seconds. I thought she might’ve fallen asleep. Then she jerked upright to a sitting position, and with a suddenly angry expression, she said, “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m just telling you how I feel,” I said. “I just think we both have to admit that we have problems. I mean, I think it’s obvious that we’ve drifted apart, but I don’t think it’s anyone’s fault. This isn’t about blame, it’s about acknowledging the way things are with us. I think we should—”

  “Should what?”

  She sounded livid, but I kept going.

  “Figure out what we’re doing,” I said.

  She lay on her back and stared at the ceiling.

  “Come on, I know you’re not happy either,” I said. “How could you be?”

  She wouldn’t look at me.

  I waited another minute or so, then left the bedroom.

  Sleeping apart wouldn’t bring us any closer, but I needed space. I took a spare blanket and pillow from the hall closet and lay on the couch, but I couldn’t sleep. I kept shifting, mainly thinking about work and snippets of the stupid argument with Maria, muttering “Salmonella, Jesus Christ.”

  Then a realization hit—my marriage was over. This wasn’t just “going through a little rough patch”—I’d been lying, telling myself that crap for years. The truth was we couldn’t have a conversation anymore without it spiraling into an argument. What was I supposed to do, suggest marriage counseling for the umpteenth time? I was in my forties, mid-forties. Did I really want to be in a sexless marriage for the rest of my life?

  But I didn’t feel bad for Maria or myself—I felt bad for Jonah. I didn’t want him to be in the middle of this, but it wasn’t good for him to have a ringside seat for a toxic relationship for the rest of his childhood either. That’s what I had gone through as a kid and look what had happened to me. The last thing I wanted for Jonah was for him to have a repeat of my life.

  I went in the bathroom and washed up, then returned to the couch. I just wanted to get a good night’s sleep, but when I lay down I couldn’t stop ruminating. I was imagining telling Maria that I wanted a divorce and the clusterfuck that would ensue.

  Later, I dreamt that I was in prison, clanging on the bars, screaming to get out. Finally, the guard came, but the guard had morphed into Maria. She handed me a key chain with dozens of keys. I was trapped in the cell with an animal, or some kind of monster. I couldn’t find the right key to fit the lock. The monster was about to bite my head off when I woke up, drenched in sweat.

  I didn’t have to be Freud to understand the meaning of the dream.

  I had to find a way out.

  CHAPTER SIX

  IN THE MORNING, Maria was still angry at me. As she got ready for the gym and work, she didn’t make eye contact and spoke to Jonah about me in third person—“Your father will make you breakfast,” and, “Why don’t you ask your father if he’ll sign that permission slip?”—then stormed out of the apartment.

  Although Jonah didn’t say anything, it was obvious by how he retreated into his room and started playing on his Nintendo Switch that he was upset. This was particularly disturbing as Jonah was acting the way I often responded to conflict—running away and hiding behind some kind of vice. Not that a kid’s video game was a vice, but I feared that when he got older this behavior could morph into avoiding conflict by going to a bar and getting loaded.

  I made breakfast for Jonah—well, poured Special K into a bowl.

  As he was eating, I said, “Sometimes me and Mom don’t get along, just like you and your friends don’t get along, but that’s okay. It doesn’t mean we don’t love you.”

  “I know,” he said. “She hates you, not me.”

  “She doesn’t hate me,” I said. “She just gets angry at me sometimes. There’s a difference.”

  He looked at me like he saw right through my bullshit.

  On our way to school, he still seemed aloof. I was worried that he was still upset and I wanted to distract him. As we headed along York Avenue, a strong gust came, blowing leaves off the trees.

  I snatched a falling leaf and said, “Got one.”

  Jonah and I had invented our “leaf catching game” when he was three years old, and we’d played it every fall since then. The goal was to catch as many falling leaves as you could.

  He darted along the sidewalk and lunged, but a large leaf zigzagged just past his outstretched hand.

  “Aww,” he said.

  I caught another and said, “That’s two.”

  “No fair,” he said, disappointed.

  “Hey, remember, we’re a team,” I said. “No winners and no losers. When I win, you win.”

  “But I wanna catch one,” he said.

  “There’s one, right up there,” I said.

  A big orange-and-red leaf was falling toward the curb. He reached up, getting ready to grab it, when a breeze came and steered the leaf toward the street. Jonah darted toward it, heading between two cars.

  Then I noticed the taxi speeding down the block.

  The leaf was blowing away faster now, toward the street, and Jonah was still chasing it, about to run out to the street.

  “Jonah!” I screamed.

  He stopped short as the cab sped past. I rushed up behind him, grabbed him by the arm, and yanked him back onto the sidewalk.

  I squatted so our faces were at the same level and scolded him: “Don’t you ever, ever do that again, do you understand me? Do you understand how dangerous that is? Do you understand what could happen to you?”

  I was practically screaming. He looked terrified and was starting to cry. I was glad. I wanted him to be upset so he’d understand how serious this was. I was pretty shaken up myself.

  “I’m not losing you.” I shook him. “You understand? I’m not losing you. I’m not losing you!”

  When he was full-blown hysterical, I hugged him and told him it would be okay and gave him tissues to blow his nose.

  We arrived at school a few minutes later, and he had to go up to class by himself. At the door, I kissed him on top of his head and said, “Are yo
u okay?”

  “Fine, Daddy,” he said.

  “You sure? Because I don’t want you to go to school if you’re still scared.”

  “I’m not scared.”

  He seemed to be telling the truth. But, while he’d recovered from his crying fit, I was still upset myself.

  “I love you,” I said, “more than anything,” and kissed the top of his head once more.

  * * *

  I knew if I thought about my marriage I’d sink into a depression. But I was good at blocking things out—always had been—and I focused on work.

  I had a productive day. I placed a few new ads online, generated some new leads and followed up on some old ones, and did follow-up calls for a couple of upcoming open houses.

  After school, Jonah and I kicked a soccer ball around for a while in John Jay Park. When we got back to the apartment, Maria was already home. Our apartment was 580 square feet, but it felt like 300. Maria was trying to avoid eye contact with me and vice versa. They say blood pressure is the silent killer, but I could feel mine rising just from being in the same room with Maria. I didn’t know how we could go on like this—without me having a massive heart attack or going insane.

  I waited until Jonah was in his room, out of earshot. Then I went into the kitchen, where Maria was making herself a bowl of yogurt with fruit, and said, “We have to talk.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about anymore,” she said.

  “See?” I said. “That’s why we have to talk.”

  She took her food with her into the living room and ate while watching a show on Food TV.

  She was right, I realized—there was nothing to talk about anymore. I felt like I was stuck in a maze—a maze with no exit.

  Later, when Maria went to bed, I announced that I had “some work to do.” Then, in the living room, I logged on to Discreet Hookups.

  I recognized some of the profiles from last night, but there were a lot of new ones, too. I wondered if the robots of Discreet Hookups had rotated the profiles to make the site seem less stale, or if it was to boost the morale of the users, to show they weren’t alone—there was seemingly an endless supply of unhappily married men and women.